Reds, pinks, and purples painted the sky as evening began its takeover of the day. Charles led his black and white Nokota across the whey fields of the Great Plains on their way back from the Grizzlies. John rode beside him, his head high and his resolve openly satisfied at what they'd accomplished the last few days.
Sadie trailed behind the two of them, her pace steady, but unhurried ever since they'd left the doctor in Strawberry. She'd been the one to insist they return tonight, but Charles could tell she struggled from the wound she'd sustained in the fight to get to Micah. She was slowing them down, but he wouldn't dare say it out loud.
When they crossed over the last hill before they reached Beecher's Hope, John said triumphantly, "All in all, I think everything worked out."
Charles turned his head, "Aside from Sadie getting stabbed and me getting shot?"
John grimaced slightly. "Of course. Aside from that."
Charles smiled. "I'm only messing with you, John. We came out all right."
Surprisingly, out of the three of them, John had come out of their face-off with Micah and his crew nearly unscathed. He had a few bruises and scrapes, but he'd managed to avoid anything serious.
For himself, Charles' arm was sore, but the bullet that had hit him had gone through cleanly so he wasn't concerned about an infection. He was just stuck utilizing his left side more until his right arm healed.
John's optimism returned. "I think so too. Micah's dead, Dutch didn't kill us when he had the chance, and we're richer than when we left a week ago."
Charles nodded in agreement. "Indeed."
"Say," John asked as Sadie caught up with them, "you sure you two don't want a cut of the money we found?"
Sadie's pained scowl hadn't cleared since she'd been stabbed so it was present as she answered, "I prefer to earn the money I make."
"We did earn it," John retorted. "Years ago."
Sadie shook her head, wordless, and Charles thought he could guess what she meant. The way they'd originally earned that money was not how she measured her success.
"What about you, Charles?"
"I don't need it." He still had some money from his fights on Saturnines, which had proved lucrative, but he knew his reasoning was more than that. Charles felt there was something tainted about the Blackwater money. That heist had begun the exposure of Dutch's true self, when he'd killed an innocent hostage instead of just letting her go. It had started Charles' doubts of the gang even though he remained in denial of their impending downfall until the group encountered Rains Fall's tribe. Then it became obvious the sort of man Dutch really was.
Call him superstitious, but Charles also had a bad feeling about how easily that money had turned up now, when they could have used it back in the summer of 1899.
"Well, I'm at least paying you and Uncle for the work you've done on the ranch. You gotta take that much."
"Alright," Charles agreed, but only because he wasn't in the mood for a disagreement no matter how small.
"Speaking of," John looked at the road ahead. "we're almost home."
Charles couldn't fault John for his eagerness to return. None of them had expected to be gone so long. Finding Micah had been the easy part, as he hadn't made it much of a secret where he and his gang were holed up. It was all the traveling that was taking them days. They stayed off the main roads in case Micah had any remaining crew stalking them for vengeance. That being said, Charles had a hard time believing anyone giving their loyalty to a man like Micah.
Now that this business was done, all Charles wanted to do was ride directly to Blackwater, fall into Irene's bed and think of nothing but the lightness of her touch and the softness of her kisses. But first, they had to stop at Beecher's Hope. Judging by how silent Sadie had been for most of the ride, Charles suspected she was in more pain than she was letting on.
Soon enough, they turned onto the drive at Beecher's Hope. John's family must have been watching for him as the moment they closed in on the house, there was loud barking from inside. As they neared the porch and John dismounted, the door opened and Rufus ran out.
Abigail followed after, her expression morose until she lifted her head and her eyes locked on John. She spun around and hollered into the house, "Jack! Uncle! It's them! Come out here!"
Abigail burst into tears in the middle of running to John. He dismounted and she threw herself into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder.
John told her soothingly, "It's over, Abigail. It's all over."
Jack and Uncle made an appearance next. Uncle stopped at the porch, but Jack ran past him to get to his father, joining his mother in their hugging.
Charles went to help Sadie from her horse since she hadn't even attempted to climb down herself. She hissed as her feet hit the ground, pressing a hand into her side. Surprisingly, she muttered to him, "Thank you."
Abigail came over and gave them each a brief hug of their own. When she saw Sadie clutching her gut, she said, "Let's get her inside, Charles."
Uncle came down from the porch. "Charles, Charles. Good to see you. 'Bout time you boys showed up." Uncle nodded to Sadie, who didn't acknowledge him. "And, of course, you too, Mrs. Adler."
Charles commented, "Better late than never."
As they walked up to the house, John asked him, "Everything okay here?"
"Oh, fine," Uncle said breezily. "I didn't let you down. I made sure to stick by Abigail's side the whole time, like you asked."
"Much to my misery," Abigail replied in an annoyed tone.
Uncle didn't seem offended. "One of these days, Abigail, you're gonna be grateful to have me around all this time."
"I doubt it, but you can dream all you want, Uncle."
"And he will," John joked, "as dreaming's his specialty."
John held open the door for Charles as he half-carried Sadie inside. She was clutching her wound, grimacing, while beads of sweat dappled her forehead. As they crossed the threshold, the smell of baked bread and meat stew wafted over them. Charles hadn't been feeling hungry, but the savory scent of a home-cooked dinner ready to be served immediately had him ravenous.
Abigail directed Charles, "Put Sadie in Jack's room for now. I can redress her wound."
"It don't need redressing," Sadie claimed, panting a little from the brief walk from her horse to the house.
Abigail glanced to John for confirmation and he said, "She's right. We saw a doctor in Strawberry."
Charles started to enter the bedroom on the right when he froze, noticing, of all things, Irene coming out of the kitchen. She was setting aside a pair of potholders, her hair pinned up like usual and an apron tied around her waist. Charles' eyes widened at the sight of her, in shock at her appearance at Beecher's Hope.
"Come on, Smith," Sadie snapped, pulling his attention back to what he was supposed to be doing.
"Once you get her down, we'll have some dinner," Abigail said as Charles led Sadie into Jack's room. "Miss Dawson and I have been working on this stew and bread all day."
John, Abigail, Jack, and Uncle went to the dinner table. Charles wanted nothing more than to greet Irene, but he focused on helping Sadie. He set her on the bed with care. She let go of him in order to lean back and lie flat, wincing as she closed her eyes.
Charles asked her, "Do you want something to eat, Sadie?"
She threw an arm over her face and said in her raspy timbre, "Quit hovering and leave me be already."
Charles closed the door gently behind him as he left the room. Irene was waiting for him in the hall. Without another moment wasted, Charles grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her out of sight of where the family was sitting. He turned around and without delay pressed his lips into hers for a passionate, heated kiss.
She leaned into him and he felt home. All his tension dissolved when they connected. When they parted, he rested his forehead on hers, his hands still holding onto hers.
"How are you?" she asked softly.
He closed his eyes and breathed her in. Today she smelled of flour and dough, the bread she'd baked clinging to her. "Much better."
She loosed one of her hands and touched a spot below his bandaged arm. "Were you injured too?"
He opened his eyes, noting the concern wrinkling her brow. "Yes, but it doesn't hurt as much today. Luckily, the bullet went straight through."
"Bullet?" She paled, swallowed and asked anxiously, "You were shot?"
"It's nothing to worry about. It'll heal fast," he told her. He rubbed her arms, "I didn't expect you to be here."
She lifted her gaze. "I grew concerned when I hadn't seen or heard from you in a few days. This afternoon I decided to come here. Abigail and Uncle graciously allowed me to wait until you returned."
Charles realized too late that he hadn't stopped in to let her know where he was going. Her only option had been to come to Beecher's Hope to find out where he was.
He told her apologetically, "The trip wasn't planned."
She opened her mouth, seemingly about to say something, but at that point Uncle called to them from the other room, "Charles! Charles, come out here. Have a seat and tell us how you put Micah Bell in the ground."
Charles glanced at Irene for her say-so. They had much more to discuss if she wished. Even if the rest of the company seemed to be waiting on them, he'd gladly leave with her now as he was ready for some privacy.
Irene ended up going to the table with the others and Charles reluctantly followed. John was at the head, Abigail and Jack on either side of him. Uncle sat in the chair next to Jack. Irene took the seat next to Abigail and that left Charles at the other side of the table, opposite of John.
Abigail passed the basket of baked bread down to their end, saying, "Uncle, I don't think recountin' Micah's death is appropriate for Jack to hear."
"Oh, sure it is," Uncle went on, even as Abigail sent him a glare. "You remember that bastard Micah, don't ya, kid?"
Jack tilted his head and paused to think on it seriously. Eventually, he shook his head. "No, sir."
Abigail hissed, "He don't need to hear about his father killing men, bad or otherwise."
"Funnily enough," John put in as he filled his plate with beans, "it was Dutch who really did it."
"Dutch?" Abigail snapped her head in his direction.
"You could say he saved our lives."
"I wouldn't go that far," Charles muttered. He didn't understand for certain why Dutch had been there. Maybe he'd finally figured out what he'd done to them all by putting his trust in Micah. But Charles would never mistake anything Dutch van der Linde ever did again as a selfless act.
Abigail scolded, "You best not even think about taking up with him again."
"I'm not," John replied, getting agitated. "He made an appearance is all. Think maybe he felt bad about Arthur and how all that went down all those years ago. He wasn't there for the money."
Abigail frowned at him. "What money?
A grin broke over John's face. "The Blackwater money."
Abigail stared at him in disbelief. "After all these years, he was able to retrieve it?"
"Yeah," John leaned over and covered the hand she had resting on the table. "And it's ours now."
Abigail shook her head, clearly uncertain. "I don't like it."
John insisted, "We can use it to pay off our debts, this house. Our wedding. We can finish getting this farm off the ground."
"But Dutch just handed it over? Easy as pie? He ain't gonna come lookin' for us?"
John shrugged. "He didn't seem interested in it. He left it behind after he shot Micah."
Abigail seemed to be coming around on the idea, even if she had started off as wary as Charles initially. He had wondered how Dutch could have just walked away from all that wealth. Had he not wanted to engage in a fight with them? Or did the Blackwater money feel just as tainted to him as it did for Charles?
"Blackwater money?" Irene asked, injecting herself into the conversation for the first time. "What does that mean?"
The group all turned to look at her in a collective manner and he saw her shrink slightly, as if she regretted bringing attention to the fact that she was an outsider. As the silence stretched, the tension around the room rose as thick as if it were visible to the naked eye.
Abigail shot Charles a look and then smacked John's shoulder. "I told you he ain't said nothing about anything to her."
Her loud assertion rankled at Charles, but she wasn't fully wrong. He hadn't gone into much detail about the gang. Irene looked around at them and Charles wanted more than anything to know what she was thinking in that moment. He didn't have long to wait. Once her gaze landed on him, she whispered, "You really are all outlaws."
"No, we're not," Abigail snapped her denial at the same time John was saying, "Not anymore."
Charles spared a glance at the couple, in disbelief that the two of them couldn't even get on the same page when confronted point blank of their past. How had they managed to stay out of reach of the authorities? He confirmed to Irene, "We've been trying to start over."
"We are starting over." Abigail lifted her chin. "We're ranchers, and as far as anyone is concerned, we've always been ranchers."
Irene nodded, lowering her gaze. Abigail forcibly moved the conversation on by changing the subject entirely, mentioning the new show that was playing at the little theater in town. Charles kept his attention on Irene and noticed she remained quiet for the rest of the meal. He suspected she felt perturbed at their links to the gang, even though he'd mentioned his participation in the Van der Linde gang on at least one occasion.
After they cleared their plates, the Marston family—including Uncle—moved to the living area. John lit the logs in the fireplace and joined Abigail and Jack on the sofa. They were all happy to have John back and ready for an evening bereft of fretting.
Irene was standing near the table, looking out the window in contemplation. Charles approached her and asked quietly, "Do you want to step outside for a little while?"
She turned to him. "Yes, please."
They left the house together, the feeling of the dry, desert air upon them the moment they opened the door. He held silent beside her, waiting for her to bring up what was on her mind. They drifted to the gazebo he and John had been working on before they'd set after Micah, and stopped in front of it.
"You told me you were in the Van der Linde gang," Irene started, "But until tonight I hadn't pieced together the extent of what that meant."
It wouldn't surprise Charles if these days she knew a little too well the details of the Blackwater Massacre, since she'd lived among its people for awhile now. "The gang doesn't mean anything anymore. It broke apart years ago."
"If that were true, then why was it so important for the three of you to hunt this Micah down?"
She was right, and even he'd tried to convince Sadie and John to let the past be. But he felt like he needed to explain. "I only saw the end of it, but in its heyday, the gang was a family. Micah ruined that. He pitted us against each other and then sold us out to the Pinkertons."
"And that was reason enough to go after him?" she questioned.
Her tone wasn't judgmental so he told her honestly, "I didn't want to go, but my friends…if I didn't go, they might have been killed."
She whispered, "You could have been killed."
Charles shrugged, as death could come at any point in one's life, at any time, mundane or otherwise. "It was possible. But I wasn't."
She turned her face so he only saw her profile. Her voice was shaky as she said, "Perhaps my feelings on this matter are hypocritical after what I put you through."
He furrowed his brow, watching her. "What do you mean?"
"I knew nothing of the nature of this trip until Abigail informed me some of what was going on." Irene swallowed noticeably. "She openly spoke as if the three of you were riding to your deaths."
Charles remembered what John had said about Abigail's fear of past mistakes catching up with them. He could just imagine the manner in which she had spoken to Irene in their absence. "Abigail struggles with what we once were. She wants to forget. She wants everyone to forget our former lives, but it's not that simple."
"Are there things you wish to forget, Charles?"
"Sometimes."
"Things…" she paused as if she was rethinking what she was about to say. "...you don't wish to discuss with me?"
She was speaking of something specific, he was sure of it. What had Abigail said to Irene to unsettle her?
"Like entering brawls in back alleys?"
Charles kept her gaze as her eyes met his, even though the shame rising in him urged him to turn away. He was willing to face her on this matter, but he wasn't sure what to say. This was the moment she released any suppressed outrage at having found out he'd blatantly gone against her wish for him to stay out of the fights.
"That's why you have so many new scars, isn't it?" She started to cry suddenly and he froze a moment at her tears, the sight of which surprised him. He'd assumed she had been concealing anger, not sadness.
It wasn't often he was faced with such raw emotion, but he did his best to soothe her. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
"I'm sorry..."
"I know I've expressed to you my regrets in leaving you behind once before, but if these last few days were anything close to how you felt at our parting, I can't tell you enough how terrible I feel for the pain I caused you."
Charles brushed a hand down her hair to soothe her. "Shh. We're here now. Everything turned out."
Against his chest, her voice was muffled as she said, "Next time, before either of us makes a monumental decision on our own, we must promise to speak to one another, and talk it through."
"I agree," he murmured, kissing her temple.
Charles was done with the gang's politics from here on out, even if John or Sadie got it in their heads that Dutch deserved justice next. He'd never had anyone like her awaiting his return and he never wanted to again cause Irene this much distress if he could help it.
They held each other for some minutes, standing quiet together under the setting sun. It was a pleasant time, calming as he felt the peace between them being restored. Soon, the evening's coolness swept in, and he felt her shiver.
He was about to suggest they return inside when Irene pulled back from him and exclaimed, "Oh! I can't believe I nearly forgot what I came here to tell you."
Curious at her sudden outburst, he asked, "What is it?"
She released a breath. "I took your advice about confronting my brother. I wrote him, and have received a response."
"What did he say?"
Her nose crinkled. "It wasn't what I expected. Well, his pomposity is present even in his prose, which I did expect, but he seems...overly cautious. It's almost as if he doesn't necessarily believe who I am."
Charles reasoned, "I'm sure you aren't the first to write claiming to be his long lost sister. Is it unbelievable for him to be on his guard?"
"I suppose not...but I would've thought Hahn could easily set any doubts of his to rest, if he wanted." She shook her head. "In any case, Wilhelm agreed to talk, but he won't come to Blackwater. He wants to meet in Saint Denis." She bit her lip and glanced at his arm. "I know you said you wanted to be involved, but I'm not sure if you should travel."
His injury was nothing. "I'll be fine."
She searched his eyes. "Are you sure you want to face this with me? My brother can be intimidating. He has the means to make your life miserable once he knows your involvement."
Charles cupped her face, gazing down at her with all of his sincerity. "Nothing he can do to me could make me feel as miserable as when we are apart."
She responded with a watery smile and he feared briefly he might have provoked her tears again. Instead, she sighed happily and hugged him tightly. "How is it you always know the right thing to say, Charles?"
It was easy, Charles thought as he held her, when he allowed his heart to guide him.